Sunday Thoughts

Often hardly the wind speaks up
and offers, constricted, it's thoughts
on laughter steeped in draughts
and liquor filled over cups

that hold a time past remembering. Turn
to other ways burned spent yearning
for some tangent held taught in confliction.
Moon rises slowly over desert breeze

and is, to the channels, no less filled
with angst than the sun as it climbs
every hour wasting a day to build

what could only in four stanzas be thought
as good. Beauty only lasts long enough
for the hourglass making its own time.